


Ev's Final Year

by HorseRider



Series: Eve's Final Year [1]
Category: Celtic Mythology, The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, F/M, Horse Racing, Horseback Riding, Horses, Post-The Scorpio Races, Thisby Island (The Scorpio Races)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorseRider/pseuds/HorseRider
Summary: Fast forward in time from The Scorpio Races, to a more 21st century version of it. People still want to hold onto the traditions of their ancestors, but tourism and relators are pushing the island into something different. 18 year old Evelyn is nearing the middle of her senior year. She's always followed her parent's rules but now as she gets closer to graduating she wonders if their vision of leaving is what she really wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my first ever thing on here! Hopefully you enjoy it. :D

Grandma used to tell me stories about them. That’s how I came to love them. I grew up on the stories of the water horses. Of their snaking necks, and rolling eyes. The way their skin almost shifted to show the wild that lingered underneath. How they were of the sea sometimes of land. 

She was a sharp woman, her eyes the color of an overcast sky—grey with a ring of hazel. Whenever she spoke you found yourself curving towards her, not meaning to. She had a way of speaking, a voice that was as sharp as the wind near the ocean. There are people you meet that burn so bright, they should power the world. Grandma was one of them.

Grandma fed me the stories—how we lived with magic. How magic flowed through us.

And as I wake up in the morning—the sun creeping into the sky and sending streaks into my bedroom, I hold those stories close to my heart. Thisby is a song that will always find me, no matter how far I go.

I step into the kitchen, Mom sitting at the table and doodling, Dad at the stove cooking. Mom used to cook in the morning, but Dad took over not long after. Anything that required heat Mom burned and anything supposed to be cold she frost burned. Even frozen meals. Chef would never be an adjective to Mom’s name.

I stretch and purposely yawn loud.

“Ev,” Mom glances up. “I’m driving you today.”

Dad grunts and flips a pancake. It smells like butter and sadness. When though it’s the first day of the best part of the year!

The leaves are turning red, and orange. The last bits of summer are being washed away into the cacophony of fall. Boats full of tourists will be arriving, the quietness of this island springing to life because the only green that’ll be flowing will be money. And the horses will be back. They’ll start climbing out of the ocean, galloping on sand. 

Our dog, Molly, sits at Dad’s feet. I have never been able to tell exactly what mix she is. She’s one of those dogs that seems to be sewn together from a bunch of parts. Her retriever of a tail thumps against the kitchen floor.

I bend down and scratch her behind her floppy ears.

“What happened?” I ask.

Mom taps her fingers against the table and turns her head to stare out of the window. We live between the wild and inland part of the island. We’re situated down the lane, down from town. Outside is filled of stoned fences and grass with gnarled bushes. Mom used to plant flowers, but she stopped after last year.

“They took Sam,” Mom says. “His mom found him—”

“What was left of him,” Dad interjects.

Mom fixes a look on his back and turns her head towards me. “On the beach.”

I’ve never been friends with Sam. We’re both seniors this year, and seeing the island is small, we’ve been in the same class since we were five. We’ve always been in the same circle, but our circle never included each other. Mom and his mom have been best friends more than Sam and I ever have. He had a solid build and tall as a tree. His hair brushed his shoulders and was yellow as hay. He’d never been one to get involved in the actual parts of the races. He merely used them as a chance to show off to off landers what authentic Thisby looked like. Minus the horse part.

Still, I didn’t want him to die.

I’m not sure what Mom wants me to do or say. She has a look in her eyes like she’s expecting something of me. She touches her red sweater and presses her black hair back off of her neck. She’s got black circles under her eyes, and her mouth twists into a scowl.

Mom’s tall and willowy and Dad follows her like Molly follows Dad. Always in her shadow with a grin.

I force out the image in my mind of what the Water horses leave behind. They eat what they want, they leave pieces at will. I can’t imagine what they did to him. I _don’t _want to think about it.

Mom lets out an angry hiss of a sigh. “You don’t have anything to say? Nothing!”

She gets up and leaves the room. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have a chance to even try.

The front door opens and before it slams I hear mom say “I’ll meet you in the car.”

I flinch. Today is October 1, so not too early for the sea to be spitting out monsters. What was Sam doing at the beach?

Dad twists and tosses a piece of bacon at Molly who sits up and catches it. His eyes meet mine. They crinkles at their edges.

“You’d better go out there. You can’t be late,” he says.

The island feeds or takes from its residents. Thisby fed off of my parents. They hunch over from the weight of it, and I know they expect me too.

I grab my backpack and grab my phone from the charger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that I can add chapters instead of just doing new works. So I'm fixing that lol

I find mom in the car. Dread presses in my stomach. I sit in the passenger seat and don’t say a thing. Mom wipes a tear from her eye. “I hate this place.”   
She clutches the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding her together.   
“It takes and takes and takes. It always takes,” she whispers. “He was so close.”  
I twist my head to look at her. Sam had accepted a scholarship off of the island, and clear across the United States. I’m shocked she doesn’t mention me. Sam and I had become her favorite foil. Him doing what she’d always wished she’d done.   
“What was he doing on the beach?” I ask.  
“You never want to say anything bad about them. You never want to acknowledge that they take and take and we never try to control them. We don’t put fences up that’ll hold them in because of tradition.”  
I shake my head. If Sam was going away, he probably decided he was going to try the Scorpio Races this year. And after having no interest in it for his whole life—he didn’t know the right way. How you always go with others. You never go at night. I don’t know if he’d ever even ridden a horse other than when we were small. He plowed into the situation thinking he’d win, when he’d actually branded death on himself.  
But mom lost the son she’d never had. And I lost a classmate.   
I touch her shoulder as she cries. She soon stops, her eyes red rimmed. She reverses out of the yard and we start.   
As we drive I notice the remains of past fences built along the main road of the island. Broken. It’s the time of year when we see dead animals. Where wood moves off shelves to fix broken fences, caved in porches, and broken barn doors. Our barn is a cobblestoned forgotten fortress down from the house. Mom and Dad use it for storage. They never wanted me to bring something home that required usage of it.   
It’s dark and grey. As we pass through town, people are hanging banners for the start of the festival. About eighteen years ago, before I was born, the town decided to upgrade from cobblestone roads to paving. It has the look of antique and new converging.   
Mom turns right onto the lane to school. Her body is too tense, her lips pressed into too stern of a line.   
I understand her fear, but I don’t completely understand why she felt the need to drive me. The water horses are as a part of Thisby as the people. At one point Thisby could get by with agriculture, but now the island relied on the horses. It would be empty here if we didn’t have the water horses.   
The car screeches to a halt in front of the school.   
Mom turns her head and pats my shoulder. Her hands are warm through my thin t-shirt. It’s the weird part of the year where the mornings are cool, the afternoon warm, and the evenings cool again.   
“This time next year we won’t have to worry about this. We’ll never have to think about this place again,” she says.   
I bite my lip and jump out of the car. I smile back at her as I walk away, even if unease climbs in me. It’s one of those things that I push out. Whenever she mentions it I pretend it isn’t real.


	3. Chapter 3

When tourists come from America or England or a whole number of places that I’ve seen on TV or in photos—they’re always so surprised about Thisby only having only one high school. Once I explain that the two-story building is for k-12? The wide eyed expression given makes me feel like I’m a part of an exhibit to peer at.

For me? The idea of having a few hundred kids in my class is really hard to imagine. Like how do they get divided up? Do they know everyone? _Or _ know of everyone? With only thirty being in my class, I know every person. No, twenty-nine. There are only twenty-nine now.

The school is in an L shape with two stories. A round circle is for drivers, with students being able to park in a small parking lot in the back. Behind that are the fields. They’re lined by wall of trees, towering with branches like arms. Gardens filled with bushes and the occasional flower give color against the concrete building.

The air smells like autumn. The sweet smell of decay lingers in the air from fallen leaves pressed into wet soil. Thisby air always smells in some way like salt. The closer you get to the cliffs, the stronger it gets. And once you stand on the beach, your nose is full of it. It’s the best smell in the world.

I pause before passing through the front doors, bustling against the bodies of my fellow high schoolers. In all there are 300 students across the whole school divided into k-12. I don’t know what they’ll do for Sam.

It isn’t as if this has never happened before. There’s usually one student, often a senior, that dies each year because of growing overzealous in their desire to compete. Or a younger kid would be walking along the road to or from school, only to never reach their final destination.

No one deserves to meet their end at the teeth of a _eich uisce_. Or to drown on their own blood.

These thoughts keep rolling in my brain as I make my way to my locker. Today, my legs feel like lead and my mind can’t stop running. Everything feels like a huge swirl. People keep stopping me to offer condolences even if I want to wrap my fingers around Sam’s neck and ask him what the hell he was thinking. I wish I could ask him why he hadn’t asked for my help. We were never best friends but I was the one with the most eich uisce experience.

Being around horses never would compare to the _eich uisce_. Horses never saw you as a meal and doing a quick search online would never describe what it felt like sitting astride on one. 

I unload my backpack and pull out books.

“I’m sorry about Sam,” Austin says.

Austin pushes back his mop of black hair, and grins. He’s a few inches taller than me and built like a tree. Not a mature one—but a growing sapling that hasn’t found its coordination yet.

He drops his voice to a whisper. “I know you weren’t close, but how’s your mom?”

I shrug. “Her favorite child is gone and she’s left with me.”

Austin shakes his head and grinds his teeth. “She shouldn’t project her insecurities on you.”

I shrug. Shrugging has become my new nod. “She’s still sad. So it’s fine. It solidifies why she’s so excited about me graduating. If there was a way for me to transfer we’d already be on a plane.”

Austin’s grandparents willingly came to the island. They haven’t been here since the dawn of time and at least once a year he and his grandparents leave the island to visit America. My mom’s dream situation would be the direct opposite: living in America and visiting Thisby to the next of never.

The warning bell rings and Austin and I walk to our homeroom.


	4. Closed Caskets Mean You Lost Your Face

“Did you hear? They aren’t having an open casket because the boy didn’t have a face.”

“Boy shouldn’t have ever gone down there.”

“He could’ve if he’d had the girl with him. She’d have brought his sorry ass back and have that _eich uisce_wrapped around her finger.”

  
That’s the moment I step into the mouth of the stable. A fresh bucket of blood sits next to the first stall, along with another bucket full of red meat. The men immediately quiet their talk once they see it’s me. A breeze slinks through, making the barn feel devoid of any warmth.

My eyes adjust to the light and I find Pat, Joel, and Marvin sitting on stools. They won’t make eye contact and a bit of me likes that. Their gossiping gets nothing done here, and we’re about to head into our busy season. Sam is dead and I could’ve gone my whole life not knowing the state they’d found him in.

It isn’t that they’re lazy or terrible workers. They’re some of the best barn hands on the island. But I want to get lost in work. I want my fingers to hurt from scrubbing buckets, my legs to grow sore from sitting astride an excited mount, and I want to quiet my mind with the sound of munching—hay or meat. There isn’t enough daylight to do all of those things—but I’d like to just forget.

Tourists will start pouring onto the island like the _eich uisce_, and they’ll want to see the winningest yard: Malvern.

The Malvern Yard, a barn that’s been around since my great great grandparents, has taught me everything I’ve ever needed to know. Even if I have never run in the races. Never owned even a horse. But I’ve worked under people who carry enough knowledge to make it seem as such. My parents thought I’d outgrow it after having to clean stalls and pick hooves, avoiding the teeth and feet of a disgruntled horse. But I never did.

I throw myself into my work. The first order of business is feeding. With the changing season, all of the _eich uisce_, particularly the pure ones, you don’t want them to be hungry. Unless you want to lose a body part.

My mind immediately goes to Sam, someone I don’t want to think about. At school they’d taken my class aside to talk to us. All of us have been together since we were 5. Sam’s best friends sat in the room with blotchy faces and red eyes, sniffling occasionally. They were a sad sight—the two of them trying to fit in chairs they were much too tall to be in. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Austin. With so few people you’d think it would be hard to find someone similar, but I found Austin. Sam had found his group too.

But the principal had spoken about how valiant he was and how the school had lost a star pupil. That’s when I stopped listening. There was nothing valiant in being an idiot. The praise Sam had gotten his whole life—from Mom, from the school, from the adoring eyes of all of the students-- had gone to his head to where he thought he could catch a wild _eich uisce_with zero knowledge. I must’ve made a face at some point because Austin nudged my knee with his own. Sam was valiant for doing the barest minimum of trying and I’d been banned from participating even though I had the knowledge. It was unfair. I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but that bothered me the whole day. When we were small, Sam had always gotten praise for doing nothing, and I’d gotten in trouble for not doing enough. Going from class to class—teachers staring me down as if I should be broken, unable to move on.

That’d followed me the whole way to work. Mom didn’t pick me up. I’d waited after the last bell and upon finding her not there, Austin gave me a lift to work.

I toss a piece of meat into the stall and the filly quickly snaps it up. She’s a potential runner this year. She’s fast and smart with the most vivid green eyes. She reminds me of a snake.

I go down, stall by stall, tossing meat into the ones that need it. The part _eich uisce_or full horses could wait for grain.

After feeding and filling buckets, I walk outside of the barn to the track. It’s a mile long one, and I find Clancy trotting one of the _eich uisce._It’s one she’d bought off of an off lander—after he’d finished racing last year. The stallion tucks his head, flicking his tail. He’s often barely a horse, with his jaw opening wide—wider than a regular horse should. And he doesn’t just have sharp teeth, he’s got fangs.

But Clancy is hutched over him, using her hands to remind him his hooves belong on the ground right now. She told me a few weeks ago that her goal was to sell him once it’s time to start training for the races.

I find Pat, Joel, and Marvin hutched over the track railings.

“You hear which one it was?”

“They’re saying it’s the Ghost. The fisherman said he saw that monster flinging himself into the water after dropping that boy.”

“Damn shame Eve wasn’t there. And to think we’re going to lose her next year. Never see her and _The Flame_go head to head.”

I clear my throat loud enough for them to hear. I don’t know why I keep finding them gossiping.

Next year, hopefully I can find a way to get back here.

Clancy’s red hair falls down her back in a single braid. She’s the current owner and manager. Third generation. If she were to be compared to a great racehorse, she’d be the one I’d bet on. Her whole family’s been involved in the yard, both of her great grandparents winning race after race, seemingly alternating them between each other for a good ten years. The golden age of the Scorpio Races is what it was called.

She’s run in two races herself, her nickname being The Flame because you don’t realize she’s up on you until you see her dark red hair in front of you. Her parents moved off of the island years ago. They wanted to do show jumping or steeplechase but they stayed long enough for Clancy to know how to run things. She’s won one and came in second the time she didn’t win. You don’t expect much of a horse if she doesn’t approve of it. Mostly because she’s always right.


	5. Chapter 5

They bury Sam on Saturday.

I put on my best dress—a black one—and brush my black hair into submission. It’s still full of tight ringlets but they’re in at least some semblance of a hairstyle. I stare at myself in the mirror—the hazel eyes with flecks of grey and full lips, my high cheekbones. My brown skin. Austin always says I’m severe in a soft way—a comparison so different I don’t know exactly what he means. This is just my face. Sometimes you meet a scowl, other times it’s a smile.

It’s windy at the cemetery. The dress whips around my legs, the grass tickles my ankles. Mom goes up to Sam’s mother, wrapping her arms around her as I stand close. Sam’s grandparents died when we were small, and Sam’s mom was a single mother—so Mom becomes all of those missing people for her. Sam looked like her—with her ability to take up a whole room without uttering a sound. Right now she leans into Mom’s body, burying her face into Mom’s neck. 

I don’t step into this moment between them. They’re around everyone while being separate. Guilt seeps into me. I feel guilty that I wasn’t there—that for some reason Sam didn’t want me to help. I feel guilty for loving this island and the horses, even as I watch my mom, and Sam’s mom together in grief. They want out—they want, no, wanted both of their kids out—but if I could be granted one gift it would be to stay.   
I glance around—noticing all of the people here. Sam’s best friends from high school, along with plenty of our classmates and family. Teachers and shop owners. Clancy stands alone with a floppy hat on her head near the back.

I break away from being Mom’s shadow and move towards her.   
I pass the casket, held up above the hole that’ll be Sam’s resting place. Sam’s casket is closed, and I swallow—knowing that Mom and Sam’s mom had to see the results of the water horse.

So many times, people say to not meet your hero—but I work for mine.

Clancy glances over to me and gives a small, toothless smile.

“It’s a shame,” she says.

I nod, swallowing.

“He died with the horses, but we can’t return one to the sea.”

I nod again. I went from shrugging to everything yesterday to now nodding. 

It’s been years since people saw Ghost. He’s the tale I’ve heard since I was small. Don’t go down to the beach when you can’t see your fingers or else you’ll come back with nothing. Sometimes you’ll hear the Ghost broke a fence, killed a mare, that he’s the color of a swan, that he’s the color of a raven.

Grandma always said that she knew the people were going to lose tradition when they became fearful of the water horses. Made up stories about mysteries instead of seeing the truth. She never believed in a water horse that was bigger than life.

“Do you believe he’s real?” I whisper.

Mom looks up—her face scanning the crowd until she lands on my face. She looks past me—to Clancy no doubt and her eyes narrow. I’ll hear it later.

Mom never liked Clancy because Clancy was everything she hated. A girl with the ability to leave but didn’t, a soul deep love of Thisby, and someone I admired.

The wind has kept up, slinking and blowing the grass. I don’t smell salt here. It’s cold here.

The crowd starts to sits down, and I shut my eyes and listen. It’s easier that way.

Clancy nudges my shoulder. “We’ve got a visitor.”

She motions behind herself, and I turn. So much for shutting my eyes.

Sure enough, there’s a guy standing in the dirt road, hands clasped in front of his body. He’s wiry and tall with black hair highlighted with bright green streaks. He looks out of place with his blue jeans and a button up on.

What type of audacity he’s got to be showing up like this? Thisby has no problem with tourists and visitors, but there comes a time when people must realize this isn’t some choregraphed show for them. We live and die on this island. The ocean drinks our blood, even if tourists run in the races.

“I guess our funerals are tourist attractions too.” I say.

Clancy shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a tourist.”

The pastor starts to talk and I shut up. But that guy, while he looks around my age, most definitely doesn’t go to school, which means he isn’t in my class which finally means he doesn’t live here. Unless he has been kept hidden in someone’s basement, he doesn’t live here.

But I don’t say anything.

The memorial goes as you’d think, and I’m a terrible person for being happy when it’s over. Funerals are so final. It’s the beginning of a cycle you’ll never get to see the ending of, even if it is your body. Your body crumbles to dust in the nicest bed you’ll ever sleep in.

That’s a think I don’t ever want to think about.

We don’t utter a word as Sam’s casket gets lowered to the ground. Mom holds Sam’s mom and they rock back and forth. Sam’s mom throws the first clump of dirt, mom does the second before a line forms and others do the same. I don’t move from my seat—even as Clancy touches my shoulder as she slips away from the funeral.

I look behind myself, looking for the guy, but I don’t see him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this so far! I'm having fun doing this.


	6. Chapter 6

You can always tell when it’s tourist season. The tourists glisten with excitement like children on Christmas, and the residents smile like the parents that bought the gifts.

I’m walking down main street, glancing at the displays in the windows. All of the cafes have signs that offer November Cakes. A smile tugs at my lips. All of them offer November Cakes, but not everyone makes them well. But for a tourist—they don’t know the difference.

It’s a nice midday to not be in school, nor at home. Since Sam’s funeral last week, Mom has been sullen and withdrawn. I’m not sure if it’s actually because of Sam, or if it’s because she pictures my face, my body being placed in a dirt bed. Either way, it isn’t the most upbeat place. Mom’s more often than not dreaming about off land, and Dad doesn’t want to point out that we’ve got to stay here until the end of the school year. One person is living in the present and the other dwelling in the future. I’m in the middle trying to avoid leaning to either side—like the swaying of waves moving out to the open ocean or to the hard rocky cliffs.

A sigh leaves my mouth. We’ve lost people but never so close before. Grandma, by the end, welcomed death. Nearly pleaded for death to come. I never want to ask nor fear death. I want it to show up right on time.

A child runs in front of me, holding up a plastic horse skull. His face is round and his cheeks are pink from the autumn chill.

I dig my fingers into the soft worn fabric of my jeans. I breath in the scent of decomposing leaves and the smell of November Cakes. Hay and horses also filter through the air. The best time of the year.

I keep moving down the street. A few cars honk as people peer around.

I don’t stop moving until I hit the gardens. Everything slows down in the chaos. It has stone statues of the water horses. Necks twisted in the direction of the sea. Some have their mouths open, too wide for a horse with grey teeth. Tourists move through the grass, posing with the giant replicas.

Soon—so soon they will see the real thing.

“Ev!”

I twist around and Austin comes bounding to me. A smile tugs on my lips.

“You’ll wanna get down to the beaches!”

Austin bends over, breathing as if he’s run a marathon. Austin lives on the other side of the island, but always took a ride to town with his mom when we didn’t have class, so I don’t know what he’s breathing so hard for.

“For what?”

Austin’s eyebrows twitch up in disbelief. “Really? You should’ve sense it or something. Someone caught that nasty stallion. They’re saying it’s Ghost.”

I turn to him, touching his arm. I search his widening eyes. “Where?”

“Down—by the cav—”

I immediately move, blazing away from Austin.

The only thing whirling around my head is _he’s here, he’s here, he’s here._ I should’ve asked who was trying to bring the monster in. But upon hearing the beginning sliver, I couldn’t wait to hear more.

I move through the streets, moving around tourists and islanders. People don’t seem to feel the importance of the moment. The monster has come home.

Soon, but not fast enough, my feet hit the sand. There’s a crowd by the beach. The scream of a horse fills the air with yells filling the remainder.

I don’t move as fast now, just walking. I shove my hands in my pocket. My heart pounds in my chest—thump thump thumping against my rib cage. The wind hits my face filling it with the magic streaming in the air. It must be Ghost.

As I get closer the crowd jumps back, a person screaming.

I notice Clancy first, large yellow gloves on her hands. Her red hair whips around her face like seaweed. My eyes follow the rope in her hands to what’s attached.

The stallion is huge, with a snaking neck and sharp teeth. The front of his face is white, like he’s been dipped in milk and his eyes are icicle blue. There’s murder in those large eyes. He throws his head back again, snapping his mouth open—showing off his large canines.

Why isn’t he charging her?

I step a bit closer. The crowd is alive—as if they’re on the other end of the rope with Clancy. I shove through them until I’m in the front. Clancy braces herself on her feet—eyes focused on the stallion.

That’s when I notice the belles adoring Clancy’s body.

The stallion utters another scream and kicks out with his hooves. Clancy calmly steps around them.

She releases one hand. “Give me the other rope!”

Pat tosses another rope to Clancy. Without taking her eyes off of the horse she picks it up and opens the loop.

People chant as she waves her arm in a circle.

The stallion puffs up his chest before raising himself to a rear—kicking out his front feet.

This is how Clancy catches her horses. She toys with them before find the right moment. She releases the rope, and it sails through the air before hitting its mark.

She pulls the rope taunt around the pastern. The stallion’s really upset now.

Clancy waits for the stallion to be squarely on the ground again. His sides heave with excursion—white sweat coating his body. He watches Clancy as she moves around him.

I know he’s done. He’s caught.

Clancy walks around him. Pat runs to her side. They both grab the rope and heave.

The stallion is standing one second and the neck he’s down and on his side.

I watch as the horse tries to get up, gets pulled down again. This cycle repeats itself over and over again until the crowd starts to thin and the horse is too tired to move.

By then, the sun is beginning to sink.

Clancy moves to the horse and makes a make shift halter.

Where some much of the island has changed through the decades, this is still the same. You catch the horses by your hands, sweat, and determination.

I take a deep breath, telling myself that doing the same thing would be a terrible idea. From the corner of my eye I catch movement and turn. I see the guy from Sam’s funeral. 


	7. A King and a God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clancy dances with the devil and brings out his friend.

He raises a camera, the wind blowing his hair towards the ocean. I force myself away from Clancy, stepping to the guy.

He seems to sense someone is watching him because his body freezes. But he doesn’t disappear.

I get next to him and allow a few moments to pass before I speak. “Who are you?”

He turns his head, lowing the camera. He has green eyes and they narrow as he stares at me.

Clancy’s braced against the rope, the stallion rallying a final burst of stamina.

“I saw you at the funeral,” I begin. “To venture to a funeral, one must either be too bold or have some personal interest. Which is it?”

The guy sighs, allowing the camera to fall to his broad chest. “Personal.”

He is quiet against the wind and activity. Almost Thisby born if I hadn’t known him not to be.

“Talkative one,” I say. “I grew up with Sam. And I know he never mentioned having an off lander friend. He was a right fool for trying to do something he’d never shown interest in but—”

“He was brave and wanted a last chance to show he really was a part of here,” the guy grinded his teeth.

I twist my head. Mom never said how they knew what Sam had gotten himself into. I watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets before his cheeks redden.

“Sam never told me you and him—”

The guy shakes his head. “No, or if it was it was unrequited by me. Sam applied to school and I was going to be his roommate. He wanted to do engineering and I studying folklore. This place always fascinated me. Living folklore—the place that time forgot almost.”

He sighs loudly and jumps back.

I turn my attention back to Clancy. She’s still fighting with the stallion. She moves slowly, her arms stiff with exhaustion. Pat tries to swap places, but Clancy waves him on. There’s no way she’d let me help, so I turn back to this guy. He’s interesting. Many tourists love the idea of bloodshed and death until it happens in front of them. This one must’ve been up close and person to this attack and is still trailing the water horses.

“And what brought you here then kind sir?” I say.

“Sam invited me to see this. Told me he was going to race this year,” he bites his lips and blinks his eyes. “I didn’t know he’d never done it before. Didn’t have a slightest idea until we came here that night and he said he didn’t have the bells or salt.”

I didn’t want to know this. I could deal enough with his death without the details. The details made it real and solid, like listening to the water horses in the ocean before seeing them in the flesh.

I reach out my hand. “I’m Eve.”

He returns the gesture, his green eyes holding mine.

“Rune, “he whispers.

Clancy screams as the stallion bolts forward past her.

I claps my hand over my mouth. While everyone had been focused on Clancy and the stallion’s dance, they’d missed the sea spitting out another one.

If Ghost was king of the island, this one was the god of it.

He stepped out of the ocean, fangs barred. He had the crest of a mature stallion with the lithe build of a runner. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blue roan water horse. Not that they’re impossible, water horses come in every color under the sun and a few shades the regular horses don’t. His black head has a sliver of white over it and his grey-blue body has black scars.

“Clancy needs to get out of the way,” I say. “Clancy! Move!”

The new stallion snakes his neck, his ear clenched against his neck. He hisses and Ghost’s head snaps up. Clancy is still standing at the edge of the rope, mouth agape.

“Move!” I scream.

Something snaps in Clancy and she swivels her head in my direction. Fear. Fear clings to her eyes, and Pat tugs at her fingers.

Getting between a water horse and it’s prey is pleading for death. Getting between a turf war between two stallions is a whole other matter.

The new horse is taller than Ghost, but slighter. Ghost echoes a challenge that chills my blood.

Rune snaps off shots.

One second the two stallions square each other off and the next their hooves dig into the sand. Water horses don’t fight like regular horses. Regular stallions might squabble but they generally avoid really injuring each other. Water horses resemble lions or wolves.

The stallions clash, Ghost with the rope still around his neck and leg, the other stallion screaming.

Like poetry they dance, their necks and legs and teeth reaching and squabbling. A rhythm. A cadence.

I can see the hunger in Clancy’s eyes.

The blue roan stallion dances, seemingly stalking his prey. He snaps his jaws. The beach had thinned and now people poured to watch the stallions fight. Stupid.

Ghost flips over, kicking his legs at the air as he tries to regain his footing.

They flip and kick, front legs trying to tear. After a while Ghost has a gaping hole on the side of his face. Red flows from it, mixed with his already wet cold. The blue roan has a slash to his should, red mixing with the blue or his coat.

Rumbling begins behind me, and I turn.

“MOVE!”

Sam’s mom hold a rifle in her hand.

Everyone stiffens. People protected their homes, but no one went hunting for the horses.

Dread fills my body as I watch her push in her safety. Clancy raises her hand, pleading. Too much is happening. 

The shot goes off.


	8. In Which Eve Comes Up With A Deadly Idea

Time stops in that moment. Clancy screams—a whole group of people do. Some duck to the ground but I turn to the stallions.   
The new stallion screams, a high pitched whistle of pain.   
My breath catches as I watch the scene, anger curling my fingers into fists. If you’re going to shoot a water horse, make sure you shoot the right one. The blue roan stallion stands, blood pouring from his neck. The scent of blood fills the air—the tangy smell mixed with salt. The ocean throws a wave and it crashes, sending mist into the air.   
Ghost rears up, slamming his body into the blue roan. The blue roan’s legs buckle under him as he rolls. Ghost doesn’t relent. Before, I thought the new stallion had the advantage. Now—I don’t know.   
When humans interfere with nature, the result warp.  
Clancy rushes over Sam’s mother and snatches the rifle out of her hands. I don’t know what the reasoning is to what she did. It’s a gun that Sam’s mom should be happy she didn’t blow herself up with.   
She slides to the ground, her fingers digging into the sand as she screams. It’s hoarse and broken. My heart cracks and it hits me, again, that this is my mother’s worst fear. This is why she wants off of the island, away from this place. The island gives and the island takes and eventually the take hits you personally.   
“What happens now?” Rune asks.   
I forgot about him being at my side. The stallions scream again, hooves tossing and teeth snapping.   
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know what there is to do. She’s been punished enough.”  
Rune nods, his camera slung to his side.   
The people who’d appeared for bloodshed seem to recognize who Sam’s mom is. People enjoy the blood of the island until they see where the blood seeps from. The ones impacted. They begin to filter off of the beach, leaving the horses to fight. Leaving the islanders.   
Clancy stares down at Sam’s mom. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was calm and understanding. Her red hair whips around her face. But knowing Clancy, she’d like nothing more than to snap that rifle over the grieving woman’s head. Sometimes you can love the island too much to where the flaws become the positives.   
The two stallions rear up, legs extended to their limits.   
“The rope,” Rune points.   
Ghost’s leg rope is wraps around the blue roan’s hind ones.   
They land and Ghost backs off and the rope tightens around the other horses’ legs. How he was still standing was beyond me. But this sent him crashing to the beach. His blue hide was mixed with red and his sides heaved in exhaustion. Ghost snapped his mouth and the blue roan leapt off, tail clamped close to him, as he thundered away from us and down the beach.   
Clancy shook her head and leaned over to Sam’s mother. Her lips move but everything is a hushed whisper so I can’t decipher it.   
The show is done.   
I turn to go back up the slope, to town. The excitement dulled to a sad murmur.   
My mind keeps tugging me in two directions. I understand Sam’s mother’s anger. I totally do. Or I don’t. I never lost a child seeing as I don’t have one. But having your world snatched from underneath you, and the living thing galloping and living while your world isn’t, I can’t imagine. Where was Mom? I’ve been spending the least amount of time as needed at home because of the way she looks at me. She looks at me like she’s worried I’ll be carried away by the sea, my blood feeding the island. Anymore, when close, her fingers find my hair and she combs her fingers through as if she’s trying to save the memory. As if I’m dead.   
And Clancy. She has a right to be angry—but she’d lost Ghost before Sam’s mom tried shooting. For a few minutes that horse was hers. But once the blue roan appeared—the humans became ants.   
“Where are you going?” Rune asks.   
He’s still following me. I don’t know why seeing he’d been here himself since Sam. I never gave much thought to Sam outside of his mother or his school friends. To think my childhood friend hid a piece of himself—it’s hard to think of.   
“Eve!” Austin waves his hand.   
He’s sitting in the gardens, gnawing on a November Cake. Austin not only grew up here, but I told him the place to get November Cakes at, and he still went to the wrong place.   
I cross my arms as I step to him. “I—”  
Austin holds up a hand. “I know—I already know what you’re going to say. But she had them for half off and I wanted to wait for you.”  
I catch him glancing to Rune, next to me.   
Rune stares back.   
I sigh. “Austin, this is Rune. Rune this is Austin.”  
I sit down next to Austin, beneath the rearing statue of a water horse. This one was made of the best runner whose record still stood. Corr. Clancy’s relative’s racer. Some of his grand foals live in Clancy’s barn.   
“Sam’s mom shot at Ghost.” I say.   
Austin’s still chewing but has enough space in his mouth to say, “He dead?”  
I shake my head. “There’s a larger horse. A blue roan—”  
After a few minutes I’ve caught Austin up with Rune interjecting details I forgot.   
Austin swallows the rest of his November Cake. I know it’s dry. If you go to the wrong place you get the equivalent to a hard biscuit.   
“Don’t think about it,” Austin says. “Please don’t Eve.”  
I poke out my lip, but don’t say a single thing. This is the struggle of having a fear adverse best friend that knows you too well.   
Rune glances between us before settling on me. “What are you doing?”  
I sigh. “I have to know. You know that.”  
“And if your mother catches you—”  
“I’m not stupid like—” I catch myself, knowing how Rune feels. “I’m not inexperienced like Sam.”  
Something clicks in Rune’s face. “You’re going to—”  
I nod. “I’m going to at least see how the blue roan is. It’s the least I can do.”  
Rune turns to Austin. “So flash light and rope?”  
Austin holds up both of his hands. “I’m taking no part in this. Plausible deniability when your body washes up.”  
I clench my jaw. “Tonight, around sunset.”   
Rune nods.


End file.
